


The I have Your Back Affair

by lilidelafield



Series: I Have Your Back [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilidelafield/pseuds/lilidelafield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon's Story</p><p>Napoleon Solo is captured and tortured in a THRUSH satrap somewhere in Russia. He is alone, and has no partner to rely on. He knows he will never escape without help...but who is there in Russia capable of rescuing him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The I have Your Back Affair

Napoleon perched on the edge of his seat in medical, listening to the regular beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor, watching the steady rise and fall of his partner’s chest beneath the breathing machines. Illya had been here for seven days now, on full life support, and yet he seemed to have made no progress this time. He seemed to be just getting weaker and weaker. Where was that damned Russian obstinacy of his? This was not like Illya to just give up. It was not like the injury itself had been the worst Illya had ever suffered either.  
They had both come into medical with worse injuries and bounced back in a day or two. This time though, there had been one complication after another, and now it seemed the doctors here were just humouring Napoleon, allowing him to sit here with his friend and partner until he finally accepted the truth that this time Illya was simply not going to recover. They had already tried to deactivate the life support machines twice now. The first time Napoleon had reacted with anger, and they had relented. The second time the CEA had been reduced to frantic tears and pleading. He knew his friend would be all right. He just knew it. Napoleon simply could not conceive of a world without Illya in it. He had to recover. He just had to. They simply had to give him enough time. Eventually Waverly had intervened and so here they were. Two days further on and still Illya just lay there, growing weaker and weaker.  
Napoleon rubbed his face with his hands and ran his fingers through his untidy hair. These last two years since their first meeting seemed to have flown past. Illya was the eighth man to have been assigned as his partner, and he had outlasted all the others…surely he wasn’t going to give up now? How could Napoleon carry on with his job if he lost Illya as well? He remembered the day he and Illya had first met as though it was just yesterday…

* * *

A rough hand grabbed a handful of Napoleon’s hair and yanked his head back so hard his eyes started to water.  
“I have had enough of your defiance, Solo. You will tell us what we want to know or I will start to dismember you right here and now, whilst you are still alive. I will start by removing your toe-nails one by one, and then your finger nails, then I will cut off your toes and then your fingers. I have your teeth removed one by one until you decide to talk. We will shave half of your head, or perhaps it might be more fun to burn it off…? Yes, perhaps that would be a better way. Just to make sure that it never grows back. We will gouge out your eyes, but we’ll do that last of all because you will need to see how hideous you are before it happens, so that it is the last thing you see.”  
Solo’s heart froze at the words. He had never been more afraid. He had known all along that working for UNCLE could bring him to this sooner or later and he thought he had been ready for it. He had always believed that he was courageous enough to face whatever came without breaking, he just hoped he had been right. He sucked his lips and shook his head.  
“I'm not telling you anything. You can damn well go to hell!”  
The man leered, showing broken and chipped teeth.  
“Somehow I hoped you would have that attitude. It makes what happens next so much more satisfying,”  
Suddenly Solo was alone, but not for long. Just five minutes later, the door swung open again and two pairs of heavy footsteps approached. A heavy blindfold was forced across his face, covering his eyes and most of his face, and his bonds were loosened then retied even more securely than before. He felt his shoes and socks being ripped off him and his left foot was grabbed roughly by the heel. Solo gritted his teeth for what was to follow.

When they were gone, Solo shuddered in pain. They had followed through on their threat and removed all of his toenails one by one, taking their time about it as well. It was perhaps not as painful as some torture he had endured in the past… until of course, they had put his socks back on, where the cotton rubbed and snagged against the raw flesh and blood of his toes. Stuffing his feet back into his shoes had been so agonising that he had eventually passed out with the pain. Now he had come round again but the pain in his feet was growing, rather than lessening.  
Was there any hope of rescue? If he had had a partner, he might have been able to rely on his partner to get help for him, but Solo’s previous partners had either been killed through their own foolishness or had been unable to keep up the pace and left. Either left for a different section within UNCLE or left the organisation altogether. In his years with UNCLE, Napoleon had had seven different partners, and none of them had lasted for more than a few weeks. Recently he had grown fond and truth be told, rather talented at working alone. There were times though, like now, when a partner would have been very nice. He just hoped when it came to it, he would be able to retain a little dignity, whether they killed him or just mutilated him.  
He had managed to get a call out to Waverly before he had stowed away in that plane, and he hoped that Waverly had managed to have the plane tracked, but it was a thin hope really. He could be anywhere in the world by now, and UNCLE realistically would have no way of finding him unless he could get some other kind of signal out. These sadistic THRUSHes had removed and destroyed his communicator almost before anything else. They had even found and removed the tracer from his teeth. There was nothing left on him now that they had not looted and destroyed. All that was left was he himself. They appeared quite prepared now to take him apart literally piece by piece.  
Napoleon tried to sleep, but sleep was not forthcoming. He was ashamed to admit to himself that he was afraid. Very afraid. More afraid than he ever remembered being before. He waited in the dark, with just the pain in his feet and the silence for company, dreading the sound of footsteps approaching.  
Some two hours later the door of his cell was opened. The blindfold was removed from his face and three men were standing over him. One was the original thug who had been torturing him before. The other he had caught a quick glimpse before the blindfold had been put on was presumably the one responsible for ripping off all his toe-nails. The third was a man he had not seen before.  
He felt his eyes resting on the newcomer. He was small and slight in stature, with light brown hair and a goatee beard. His cool blue eyes seemed positively arctic, and seemed to bore right through Napoleon to his collarbone. His face carried an expression compounding of arrogance and contempt. Danger radiated from every pore.  
“This is the one causing you trouble is it? I know this man.” He spoke English in a thick German accent.  
His companions seemed surprised,  
“You know him sir?”  
“His face is well known at THRUSH Central. This is the great Napoleon Solo of UNCLE… They have been trying to get their hands on this one for a while. My opinion of you fools here in Russia has increased slightly.”  
Solo watched the young man circle him, contempt and hatred painted across the stranger’s face.  
“What are your plans for him?”  
“We pulled his toe-nails off. You should have heard him yelling sir. But he hasn't said anything. Not yet, but he will.”  
The young man shook his head.  
“This man is UNCLE. They are trained to resist anything you might do. Torture, dismemberment or even death will not make him talk. Especially not this one. Do you think there isn't anything you can do to this one that hasn't been tried before?”  
His companions seemed confused.  
“You said Central has been looking for him for a long time.”  
“He has been captured many times before, but he has always escaped or been rescued before Central were able to get their hands on him. He has been a thorn in the side of THRUSH for too long. I am empowered to take him with me to THRUSH Central where they have a very special reception prepared for him. You men will be rewarded for your good work here.”  
The men looked disappointed.  
“You’re going to take him away before we even get the chance to play with him again? I was looking forward to hearing him screaming again.”  
The large man, whom had been guilty of ripping away the prisoner’s toe-nails cracked his knuckles.  
“This man is not nearly subdued enough yet sir and you know that as well as I do. If he is left as he is he will escape as soon you get him outside. As you say, these UNCLE types are incorrigible. Why don’t you take the lead sir? We’ve heard that no officer from Central would dream of leaving an UNCLE agent un-tickled!”  
Solo shuddered, knowing the dark hidden meaning behind the man’s use of the word `tickle’.  
The young man nodded. He knew this was true. No self -respecting THRUSH officer would leave an UNCLE man to these fools, and only a fool would attempt to remove a man as dangerous as Napoleon Solo without making sure he was well and truly beaten and cowed. He pursed his lips, then nodded, an evil smile curling his mouth that made his two companions shiver.  
“I brought with me a straight-jacket trolley. Fetch it now and leave it outside the door until I am ready for it. I will perform this one myself. I am ready for a little bit of exercise and diversion. I have not had the chance to get in any practise for a while. This is the perfect opportunity.”  
Eagerly, the two men rushed away. When they were gone, the young man rubbed his chin thoughtfully and pulled a whip out of his trousers. He approached Solo and leaned in close,  
“I have to make this look good and you have to make it sound good.”  
His German accent was gone, replaced by a gentle Russian accent and perfect English.  
“I need to hurt you enough to draw blood. When they come back they need to hear you screaming. Hold this in your mouth but do not bite down until I give you the nod. It will render you unconscious for about twenty minutes. By the time you wake up I should have you out of here. Forgive me for the whip, but it is necessary. I will not hurt you any more than I can help.”  
The young man pushed a small capsule into Solo’s mouth, which he held in his cheek where he knew it would remain unbroken until he was ready for it. Next the young man pulled out a small syringe and injected something into Solo’s left arm.  
“This is just something to help with the pain I am about to inflict on you. Remember I will draw blood. You need to scream.”  
Solo’s mind was in a whirl. This man must be UNCLE, but who was he and how did he know Solo was here? He gritted his teeth once more. The young man removed Napoleon’s shoes and socks, and raised the foot of his table so that his head was pointing down and his feet were in the air. The young man looked meaningfully at Solo, and Solo started to scream. Just a minute or two later, Solo could hear the sounds of the other men returning, even over the sound of his own screams. Before they reappeared in the room, the young man started whipping the prisoner soundly on the soles of his feet, and his ankles. It was excruciating and Solo found himself screaming in agony for real. He could feel blood both from his toes and from the new injuries running down, or rather, up his legs. The young man was very efficient in the use of the whip, and seemed to know exactly how hard to use it to produce the most amount of blood and pain with the least amount of personal effort. After half a dozen strikes, His tormentor caught his eye and nodded. Solo screamed louder than before and then bit down hard on the capsule he had been given….and everything went black.

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he was aware of was someone very carefully tending to his feet, cleaning his wounds with infinite gentleness and binding them up with soft bandages. He was in pain, but perhaps the injection he had been given was helping him for he did not seem to be in quite as much pain as he had expected. He looked around. He seemed to be in the back of some kind of vehicle. The face of the young man from the cell appeared before him again with a solemn expression.  
“Mr. Solo? UNCLE Moscow. Please forgive me for torturing you further back there, but without it I assure you I would have never been able to get you out of there. As you know, no THRUSH officer would have turned down such an opportunity to put you down and if I had refused, I would have attracted suspicion.”  
Solo struggled to sit up. The young man reached forward and helped him. Solo eyed the young man warily.  
“I never expected to be rescued or even found this time. I was convinced that I was a goner. How did you know I was there?”  
The young man looked uncomfortable.  
“Mr. Waverly, section one, New York contacted international tracking for an airplane he suspected was carrying THRUSH contraband and an undercover UNCLE agent requesting a follow and extraction detail. We tracked the plane and I was put in command of the team to follow the birdies on foot, find you where you were being held and rescue you and destroy the bird nest.”  
“You got me out of there well enough. You destroyed the nest as well?”  
“Yes. No one will come back to that satrap again. I have a little skill with… ahh… explosives you see.” The man gave a self-conscious cough. “By the way Mr. Solo.” He started pulling at his beard and his brown hair to reveal a very pale, clean-shaven face and bright blond hair. “My name is Kuryakin. Illya Nikovitch Kuryakin.”

Solo awakened in Medical of the Russian HQ. Everything seemed exactly the same as the HQ in New York. He had been stuck here for three days now, and against his expectations, there did not even seem to be any kind of language barrier. Although everyone present was Russian, or at least, from some Soviet Member state, and they all spoke in their own local dialects, everyone who had come into medical had been perfectly conversant in English. More than that, he found that contrary to his expectations, everyone seemed to be delighted to have him there. He had half expected to find some kind of thinly veiled hostility from men who were all too aware of the reality of the cold war being waged between their respective governments. That was not the way of UNCLE, of course, but after all, men were only human. He was pleasantly surprised though to find that he was treated as a valued colleague.  
The chief of this HQ had been by to thank him for his sterling work in flushing out these particular birdies and Solo had been glad for the chance of thanking the man first hand for his quick response to his call for help. Wilhelm Tarasov had smiled.  
“I merely gave an order Mr Solo. It fell to my number three Enforcement agent the task of extracting you and destroying the THRUSH base; my numbers one and two agents being currently on assignment in Siberia.”  
Solo nodded, almost repressing a grunt.  
“Yes, I recollect a Mr Kuryakin wasn’t it? As I recall he is partly responsible for my being stuck here in medical.”  
Tarasov could see resentment and even a little anger beneath the surface here. Solo was clearly grateful for being rescued; but it seemed he had a problem with the mechanics of his rescue. Tarasov was as aware as Waverly that decisions of that nature, made in the field, often on the spur of the moment were among the most difficult decisions any agent would ever have to make, and the reality in this case was that Kuryakin really had had very little option given the circumstances. Once Solo had had time to consider all the facts for himself, he would realise that. No point in trying to explain all of this right now. The man was hurting and bored and a long way from home. He rested his hand lightly on the American’s shoulder for a moment.  
“Illya Kuryakin is a good man Mr. Solo. By far my best agent, especially given his age and length of service. He has requested permission to come down and visit you.”  
“Why ask permission, sir?”  
“Because he believes you may not be very welcoming.”  
“Well he did get me out of that hell-hole.”  
Tarasov took that as an agreement and nodded.  
“Very well Mr. Solo, I will inform Mr. Kuryakin that you are willing to see him. I believe Medical will release you sometime tomorrow, so when you are up and around again, I would appreciate it if you would come to see me in my office.”  
“Yes sir.”  
Tarasov left, and Napoleon hardly had time to think about their conversation when there was a sharp rapping on the door, and a blond head peered round. The cool blue eyes seemed to look right through Napoleon. After a moment though, the intense look faded, replaced by a faintly troubled frown.  
“Mr. Napoleon Solo…”  
Solo nodded once, an acknowledgement, but that was all.  
“You will have reason to remember me…Kuryakin…”  
Kuryakin entered the room and stood awkwardly beside the bed.  
“I have been thinking constantly, trying to think of a way I could have got you out of there safely without… without doing what I did to you.”  
The young, blond Russian seemed fascinated with his hands.  
“I hate myself for it, but I still can’t think of another way I could have done it without making things worse for both of us and getting my team killed as well. I have even been having nightmares about it…”  
Solo’s eyes widened. This speech of contrition was clearly genuine. He had been half expecting a half-hearted `sorry’, and a complicated reason for having no other choice. Not this. Uncertain how to reply, Solo remained silent, and watchful. The young man looked up. Those expressive cool blue eyes seemed to be searching for something.  
“Are you looking for absolution Mr Kuryakin? Are you looking for an alternative solution that you could keep in mind for another occasion? Are you now convinced that you did the wrong thing?”  
Kuryakin shook his head in a decisive manner.  
“No Mr. Solo. None of those things. I know for a fact that it was the only way to get you out of that place alive. There was no other alternative. Ultimately we succeeded in our objectives, so I am certain I did the right thing, which ought to mean I should have no need for absolution.”  
“And yet you’re here. And this is no `grapes and flowers’ visit is it?”  
A faint smile touched the corner of the Russian’s mouth.  
“You are right. I suppose I am here because I hurt you. I am angry at THRUSH for putting us both in that position. I am angry at me for not being able to find or create a better choice, and I believe you are angry at me and I think you would feel better if you had the person responsible for your pain standing in front of you rather than hiding somewhere else in the building.”  
Solo nodded slowly.  
“Knowing what you know now, if you were faced with an identical scenario another time, would you be inclined to hesitate before making the same decision again?”  
“No.” came the emphatic reply. “There was no other option on this occasion. The only option available was a bad one, but it was nevertheless the only choice open to me. The alternative was to let them torture and mutilate you and then finally kill you in the most brutal way possible. I would kill you myself before I would allow them to do that to you, or to anyone.”  
“You are not afraid of making difficult decisions are you Mr. Kuryakin?”  
“Life is full of impossible choices Mr. Solo. We cannot avoid them however much we desire it.”  
“It would be interesting to get to know you a little better.”  
Solo exhaled heavily, finding much of his resentment vanishing along with his breath.  
“Well if it helps any, I know you did the only thing you could…in fact you took a couple of chances for me back there. You gave me that pill to knock me out, and you gave me that injection for the pain. Goodness knows what I might have gone through if it hadn’t been for that.”  
Solo managed a wan smile at the slightly disconcerted young man.  
“And it occurs to me that although beating to the feet hurts like the devil, it had the desired effect and made me scream more loudly, it also occurs to me that with my feet bound up anyway I am no worse off. If you had beaten me on my back or somewhere else…I would right now be a lot more uncomfortable.”  
“That was the rationale behind choosing the feet…I have been beaten often enough myself in the past, I know how hard to strike to draw blood without doing any serious damage. Mr. Solo, in spite of everything, I really am sorry I had to hurt you.”  
Solo held out his hand.  
“Thank you for saving my life. Call me Napoleon.”  
A shy smile.  
“Illya. Would you prefer I bring flowers or grapes next time?”  
“Grapes. Flowers might get people gossiping. Mr Tarasov believes I will be out of medical by noon tomorrow. He wants me in his office after that. Debriefing?”  
Illya nodded.  
“He has my report of course, but he will probably ask you to write up yours now before you return home, and he will send a copy of it to your Mr. Waverly.”  
“Hmm. Illya, can I ask you something?”  
“I think you have earned that right.”  
“I’ve been here for three days or more, and various members of your staff have come by to see me. How come this is the first I’ve seen of you?”  
“Acting CEA until Molovitski and Polokofiev return from their assignment…”  
“I know the workload of a CEA. I am Number one of section two in New York. Even so, ten minutes out of a single day…”  
The two men looked at each other, each sizing the other up. There were various reasons why an acting CEA might not have time to visit someone in medical, but under the circumstances…the look on the young Russian’s face was inscrutable. There was a long silence, as Solo waited for a clearer answer to his question. Eventually he realised it was not going to be forthcoming. This blond young Russian was a man hard to fathom. Finally, Kuryakin held out his hand.  
“I need to go Mr. Solo…goodbye.”  
Solo shook his hand briefly, then before he could blink, Kuryakin had gone.

 

“What happened in Russia is the final proof Mr. Solo, you need a permanent partner.”  
Alexander Waverly knocked his pipe on the ashtray and leaned back in his chair, regarding his second in command shrewdly. Solo shook his head.  
“Sir, we’ve been through this before. How many good men are we going to lose because of me?”  
“You are quite right of course Mr. Solo, but I believe the answer is simple. We bring in someone from another HQ, someone with skills the equal of yours, someone without anything to prove, and with a proven track record of his own.”  
“You sound like you have someone in mind already.”  
Waverly nodded.  
“Quite right Mr. Solo. It has taken quite some time to arrange…. but all the details and orders are now completed. Your new partner will arrive this afternoon. I want you to pick him up in the airport arrivals lounge at two-thirty, and help him settle in.”  
“Two-thirty today?”  
Solo glanced at his watch. It was already a quarter to two. Waverly gave him a sly smile and nodded.  
“Yes Mr. Solo. I suggest you get a move on.”  
“er…right!”  
He was pulling into the airport carpark when it occurred to Solo that he had no idea who it was he was going to meet. Waverly had left him no time to even ask for a name.  
He strolled into the arrivals lounge just a minute late and glanced vaguely round. The thing about UNCLE agents was that they tended to look very ordinary. How was he to know whom he was here to find? His eye rested on a figure at the back of the room, sitting on a bench reading a magazine. Solo could see him clearly enough in profile. Bright blond hair, full, slightly pouty lips, skinny build…he would never forget the first time he had seen that profile, in the THRUSH torture chamber in Russia five weeks ago. He blinked and started towards the man. He stopped about a foot away and cleared his throat.  
“Hi there… I don’t suppose you’ve seen my UNCLE anywhere have you?”  
The other dropped his magazine as though it had suddenly become too hot and leapt to his feet. Solo could not help but be amused at the other’s fluster.  
“It’s you. Mr. Napoleon Solo.”  
“Illya Kuryakin.”  
The two men stared at each other for several, long, silent seconds, both aware and thinking of the history they shared. Kuryakin flushed.  
“Mr. Tarasov did not tell me… I mean I was told I could not continue without a partner, and there was a man in New York who also was in need of a partner, but no one told me…”  
Solo could tell he was clearly uncertain how he would be received, given their past. He suddenly felt very sorry for the man.  
“Was it your choice to come here Mr. Kuryakin, or were you not given any option?”  
“I was given the option of turning down the transfer, but I would have had to leave section two.”  
“Tarasov told me you were by far his best operative.”  
The blue eyes opened wider.  
“He did? The thing is I have had three partners, but none of them worked out. Two of them ended up dead through taking silly chances, the other couldn’t take the pace and transferred to section three. Tarasov will not allow his section two agents out alone. In Russia at least, it is considered very unwise.”  
“So you agreed to leave your home and all of your friends to work in a foreign country with a bunch of potentially hostile strangers.”  
The Russian nodded.  
“I was told that Alexander Waverly asked for me specifically, and would not accept `no’ for an answer. That is flattering… and it will be interesting to experience living and working in America.”  
“Even though the trade-off is having to be partnered with me?”  
The blue eyes met the brown ones.  
“I thought that was my line? Mr. Solo, I really want to do a good job. You commented before about being able to make difficult choices. I think that that is what being a good section two agent is all about. Making good decisions in a split second, because you do not have time to stand and debate the ethics when you have a gun or a knife in your face. Wherever we are ordered to go and whatever we are ordered to do, I will always have your back.” The blue eyes bored into him, and Solo could see the undeniable honesty in them.  
“I give you my word on that.”  
“You have my back already, my friend. You’ve saved me once already. You still haven’t forgiven yourself for that have you?”  
“No.”  
“Even though it was unavoidable?”  
Kuryakin gave a muted, half-shrug, his expression sad. Solo grabbed both the young man’s shoulders.  
“That is nature of our job, Illya. I admit I was angry at you for a while until I started to think clearly about the whole thing. I haven’t forgiven you because there is nothing to forgive, you haven’t done anything wrong. On the contrary, you got me out of a secure THRUSH stronghold in the middle of Russia. Without you I would be dead now. I just want you to make me one promise, my friend, if you want me to agree to being your partner.”  
“Anything.”  
“Promise that you will always do whatever is necessary, however difficult it might be. Promise me you will never hold back, if it means saving my life. Never, ever hesitate. And never be kicking yourself about doing what has to be done.”  
“You are serious?”  
“Never more so.”  
“I promise, and you must make the same promise to me. Otherwise I will go back on the same plane.”  
Napoleon laughed.  
“I promise.”

Carolyn Switcher smiled broadly when the CEA returned from the airport after picking up his new partner. Napoleon smiled widely at her.  
“And how is my lovely Carolyn? Are we still good for tomorrow evening?”  
“Eight o’clock sharp Napoleon.” She reminded him. She paused and glanced at the second figure whom had followed Napoleon through the door from DelFloria’s. Solo smiled.  
“Carolyn, allow me to introduce our new section 2 agent, Illya Kuryakin. Illya, this is the delectable Carolyn Switcher.”  
Carolyn found her heart fluttering in her chest as the new agent smiled shyly and kissed the back of her hand.  
“Pleased to meet you Miss Switcher.”  
So this was Napoleon Solo’s new partner? Napoleon’s partners were usually dead within a few weeks. Too bad, here was a real piece of eye-candy. She blushed and handed him his badge, pinning it on for him. As the two agents headed out of the door towards the elevators, Illya glanced down at his badge, and paused, electrified by what he saw. It was emblazoned with the number 2.  
“Napoleon, has not Miss Switcher given me someone else’s badge by mistake?”  
Napoleon shook his head.  
“No my friend. That badge is yours. “  
“Isn’t it unusual to promote an agent from outside to one of the top positions?”  
“Don’t worry about treading on anybody’s toes, Illya. If Mr Waverly was not absolutely convinced that you are the right man for the job, you would not be here…”  
Napoleon led his new partner through the corridors of HQ, heading towards Waverly’s office. Illya was feeling slightly edgy, and looked, in consequence, serious and forbidding. He had been warned that his fellow country-men were none too popular in America. How would his new colleagues take to having a Soviet in their midst? To his surprise however, he detected no unfriendly stares or any kind of atmosphere from anyone. He received nothing but friendly nods from the male agents he passed in the corridor, and he quickly became aware of appreciative smiles and stares from the women they passed. He lowered his eyes and focussed on following his new partner until they finally paused outside Waverly’s office.  
Solo saw Illya drop his suitcases on the floor and pull his jacket straight. He supressed a smile and knocked.  
“Come!” came Waverly’s voice from inside. Napoleon opened the door and stepped inside. Waverly was in the process of handing a pile of folders to his secretary, Miss Lisa Rogers.  
“May I introduce Mr Illya Nikovitch Kuryakin, sir. Mr Kuryakin, this is Mr Alexander Waverly and the incomparable Miss Lisa Rogers.”  
Illya stepped inside the room and shook Waverly’s hand, and then that of Miss Rogers. She smiled at him and slipped quietly from the room. Solo closed the door behind her.  
“Sit down gentlemen. It is good to finally have you here in New York Mr. Kuryakin. And I know that I already have you to thank for saving the life of my best agent five weeks ago in your homeland.”  
Illya flushed uncomfortably, but said nothing. He gave a quick, tight-lipped nod, and appeared to be fascinated with his hands.  
“I read the copy of the report you filed with Mr Tarasov. Very creditable. Very creditable indeed. Your personal files arrived here some time ago. The full file, containing all your personal information as well as your professional details is filed with me alone, for my eyes only. You are entitled to your privacy Mr Kuryakin, but you must realise I cannot allow that privacy to extend to your professional history. That has to go in your service file that will be in the keeping of Mr Solo.”  
“Thank you, sir. I understand.” Kuryakin sounded tense. Waverly handed the file to Napoleon.  
“Well, your copy of Mr. Kuryakin’s service file for your personal records Mr. Solo. Mr Kuryakin, Mr Solo as our CEA and more importantly as your partner will show you to your office, and he will take you to the apartment we have prepared for you. You are free to stay there permanently if you wish, or until you find somewhere more to your liking. As you have come here all the way from the Soviet Union, you will not have had the luxury of bringing very much with you in the way of personal effects for your apartment; so accounting has approved a sum of money to be listed under sundry expenses, for you to use to buy things you need for your apartment…You will collect it from Miss Rogers on your way out. You have the rest of the day and the whole of tomorrow to settle in Mr Kuryakin. I would like you both to report to my office at eight-thirty sharp on Thursday morning. Good day gentlemen.”  
Kuryakin followed his new partner out of the room, feeling as though his head was in a whirl.  
Lisa Rogers handed the Russian a thick envelope as he reached her desk, and when he peered inside, he found it contained a thick wad of notes. His eyebrows raised in surprise.  
“Th..thank you Miss Rogers.” He said, his accent suddenly thicker than usual. He slipped the envelope into his inside pocket, as though he was afraid someone was about to change their mind about giving it to him. Solo grinned and took his elbow.  
“Come on my Russian friend, let me show you to our office.”  
“We share an office?” Kuryakin sounded slightly disappointed. Solo nodded.  
“Only Mr Waverly gets an office to himself. Section 2 agents share an office with their partners. As we are the two top agents, we get the best office; well, the second best office, anyway. Here we are.”  
Kuryakin was impressed when he saw that the door already carried his name and UNCLE designation, immediately beneath that of Napoleon’s.

“Napoleon Solo  
Chief Enforcement Agent: Section Two, Number 1

Illya Nikovitch Kuryakin  
Section Two, Number 2”

Solo glanced at the sign with a half shake of his head. Although he said nothing to his new partner, that second sign had not been there before he had left for the airport. Alexander Waverly was getting sneaky in his old age! He opened the door and gestured Illya to enter the room first.  
Illya stepped inside, full of curiosity. The room was surprisingly spacious. Opposite the door, a large window looked out over the city. Beneath the window was a long, low, broad sofa and a large coffee-table. Either side of the door and facing the centre of the room were two large desks, and behind the door against the wall stood a large filing cabinet and a sideboard, which Illya discovered was actually a disguised drinks’ cabinet. Against one wall beside the sofa, was what looked like a wardrobe.  
“I was thinking of asking for an office to myself, but I think I might be able to get used to sharing this one…” he commented, staring round wide eyed. Solo smirked.  
“You will find it very useful having somewhere large enough to work properly in, Illya.” He gestured towards the wardrobe in the corner.  
“That cupboard is in two halves as well. You will need to make sure you keep a couple of clean changes of clothes in there. You never know when you are going to get back to HQ from a mission covered in mud or something, and need to change. It’s always useful to be able to get a shower in the cloakroom and send one of the girls to fetch a spare suit from your office.”  
Illya thought of the small cramped office he had had in Moscow, barely room for his desk and chair. He had had to stand flat against the wall whenever anyone opened the door, because of the lack of space. Spare clothing had had to be stored in a box placed in the foot-well beneath his desk. Without a partner, he had lost his privilege to a larger and more luxurious office. Solo grinned at him.  
“Sit down and have a drink before we go to your apartment.”  
Illya nodded and walked to the sofa and sprawled on it, enjoying the feeling of space and airiness this room gave. Solo handed him a glass with what looked like water. He took a sip and his face lit up.  
“Vodka? Perfect. Thank you!”  
Napoleon nodded.  
“Did you know Mr Waverly never told me I was to have a new partner, let alone who you would be? The first I knew was when he told me to hurry to the airport or I would be late in picking up my new partner. It must have Mr. Waverly who had the vodka brought in for you.”  
Illya gave a slight smile.  
“He guards his cards well that man.”  
He narrowed his eyes slightly as Napoleon sat beside him and leaned forward earnestly.  
“Illya, I want to ask you something.”  
“What?”  
Napoleon took a deep breath.  
“Remember when I was in medical, in Moscow? I was there for three days before you came in to see me and you seemed reluctant to tell me why you hadn’t come in to see me sooner?”  
Illya studied the contents of his glass.  
“I remember.”  
“Will you tell me now? Please?”  
“Why does it matter so much to you?”  
“I don’t know why… I just can’t stop wondering about it. It was almost as if you were afraid to face me, but when you did come, I decided it couldn’t possibly be that.”  
Illya half smiled at that.  
“No, I wasn’t afraid to face you. I had…I had…”  
“Yes?” Solo was beginning to see that parting with personal information was definitely not an easy thing for Illya.  
“I had a personal problem.”  
“You mean having nightmares?”  
“What? Nightmares?”  
“Yes. You told me you had been having nightmares about… you know, about what happened when you rescued me.”  
“Oh, yes, but that’s nothing unusual. I get nightmares very night. No, it’s only that I received some bad news and it…”  
Napoleon could see that Illya was having a lot of trouble talking about…whatever it was. He felt that he really ought to reassure the man, withdraw his question, but somehow he just didn’t. He simply waited silently for Illya to either answer him, or refuse to answer. Finally, Illya raised his glass and swallowed his vodka in one hit, then sat twiddling his glass in his hands.  
“I received news… the body of my ex-wife and my three-year-old son were found floating in the Danube… murdered by someone… THRUSH…the KGB who knows? It took me a couple of days to get my head back on straight, and then I had a lot of CEA paperwork to catch up on…I’m sorry Napoleon, I was not deliberately avoiding you, whatever it looked like.”  
“I’m so sorry Illya. I shouldn’t have asked…”  
Illya smiled.  
“Don’t worry. We’re partners, right? You can ask me anything you want.”  
“Really?”  
“Really. If I don’t want to answer your question, I’ll say so, but you are welcome to ask.”  
Solo laughed.  
“You’re on. Come on. Where did you leave your luggage? Ah, right. Come on then, let’s get you to your new apartment, so you can start to relax and sort yourself out.”  
Solo picked up one of Kuryakin’s cases. Kuryakin picked up the second and followed him back through the maze of corridors until he found himself back in reception where Miss Switcher greeted Illya with a beaming smile. He handed her his badge with lowered eyes and the tiniest twitch of the corner of his mouth.  
“Thank you Mr. Kuryakin. Don’t forget to call if you need anything.”  
“Thank you.” The twitch widened into a shy sidelong smile for just a fraction of a second, then he turned and left the room, back out into DelFloria’s. Solo raised an eyebrow at her.  
“Is everything all right Carolyn?” he asked her with a twinkle. She smiled dreamily. “Ooh yes, Napoleon. Everything is just…gorgeous!”

* * *

A loud siren blaring roused Solo from his memories. He was summarily pushed out of the way as a crash team ran into the room and surrounded the still figure on the bed. Standing with his back against the wall, he found tears running down his face as the body of his friend jerked on the bed; the sound of the machinery powering up again and then the body jerked a second time.  
“He’s flat lining, he’s not coming back!” yelled one of the nurses. Solo dashed forward frantically.  
“Try again, please! You have to get him back! Illya, fight boy, fight! You’ve been fighting your whole life. Don’t give up now, fight!”  
“Keep out of the way Mr. Solo. We’re doing what we can. Power up again.” Doctor Simpson was kind but resolute. Napoleon stood aside, watching desperately as the machine powered up a third time, and again the skinny body jerked on the bed.  
“Wait… there it goes. We have an output! We’ve got him back. All right Mr. Solo, you can come back and sit with him now.”  
As the crash team started to pack up their equipment again and leave, the doctor laid a hand on the CEA’s shoulder.  
“I’m afraid it’s touch and go. If he goes into cardiac-arrest again, we’ll have to let him go. His body just cannot take any more of this kind of treatment. There comes a point when we have no choice but to let him go. I suggest you say your goodbyes to your partner Mr. Solo. I think tonight is the crucial night. If he is to have a chance of coming out of this, it will have to be tonight. He is just too weak to survive if he loses any more ground. I’m so sorry.”  
The duty nurse withdrew to the other side of the room to give the grieving Solo some privacy with his dying partner. Solo dragged his chair as close to the bed as he could and he grabbed Illya’s hand and held it to his cheek, tears still falling.  
“Come on Illya, you’ve never run away from anything before, you can’t leave me now. You may look like you can’t punch your way out of a paper bag, but you’re as tough as they come. Come on buddy, please fight. Don’t leave me Illya, please. I need you pal. No one has my back like you do. Come back to us.”  
He stared at the frighteningly still figure in the bed. Illya, his partner. His best friend. He couldn’t help it. His mind was still reliving old memories…

* * *  
“Well, is this what you expected of your first mission in the US?” Solo asked with a grin. His partner, up to his knees in thick, gloopy mud did not deign to reply.  
They were supposed to be searching for a stolen missile control system prototype. They had driven…or rather Napoleon Solo had driven at breakneck speeds through the streets of New Jersey whilst the blond Russian had held on to his seat with both hands as tightly as he could, hoping fervently that he could hold on to his stomach as well. This was unpleasantly similar to being on a raft in the middle of a rough ocean and Illya was a bad sailor. Finally arriving at their destination, all they had found was a large muddy field, with a pretentious looking hillock in the middle of it. Solo had decided that the hillock must be some kind of underground THRUSH base, and therefore needed investigation. It was typical of Napoleon’s luck that he had managed to find the dry path through the mud, and he had not tried very hard to be sympathetic when his new partner had inadvertently missed his footing in the dark and plunged deep into the mire.  
“Will you stop sounding so smug and pull me out of this!” Came Kuryakin’s frustrated reply. Solo willingly leaned forward and groped for his partner’s hand and pulled backwards with all his might. The mud reluctantly gave up its hold on the Russian, as his boots came free with a rather rude noise.  
“Now try to stay on the path will you?” Solo struggled to keep the grin out of his voice. “You keep making noises like that with your boots and the whole world and his mother will know we’re here.”  
Illya whispered something back in Russian. Solo did not understand of course, but he had no trouble guessing what it meant.  
“Thanks Illya. Now come on, quietly!”  
“Cretin!”  
“What was that?”  
“Nothing. Let’s get out of here.”  
The two men crept toward the hillock.  
At first glance, it seemed just an ordinary hillock. They walked round and round it, and Solo was about to call it quits for the night, when Kuryakin grabbed his elbow.  
“Look at this.”  
Kneeling, he pointed his finger to what looked like a straight edge cut with a spade into the grass. He followed the outline with his finger and traced a large rectangular shape.  
“It’s in the shape of a door or something.” Solo whispered. “Do we go in?”  
“Unless you want to cool your heels out here all night.” Kuryakin quipped. “I suggest you go in and I wait out here. Keep in contact with me. If I don’t hear from you within… twenty minutes, I’ll assume you’ve been captured and I’ll come in after you. Or would you prefer that I go in first?”  
“No, I’ll go in, but make it ten minutes, not twenty. I’ll search for the device, you set the detonators to blow this place sky high…unless of course we find that it’s just a giant ant-hill after all.”  
His partner nodded.  
“Right. I’ll set the detonators for…ten minutes? That gives you twenty minutes to find what we’re looking for, or…”  
“Agreed. Keep in touch, Illya.”  
“You too.”  
Together they pulled back the slab of grass and found a thick, slatted wooden door beneath. Solo breathed deeply, pulled the door open and crept inside.  
Too many times he had done something like this and had been discovered and captured for his trouble. Without a partner, it would always devolve upon him to find his own way out of trouble. How would he ever find his own way out of an underground bunker like this, even assuming he managed to escape from any kind of cell? If he did get into trouble, would Kuryakin to be able to rescue him? Well, the man had given him his word that he would have his back. He would have to learn to trust him. That’s what partners did. They trusted each other. He would simply assume that whatever happened, Kuryakin would do whatever was needed to make sure they were both safe. Meantime just search this place and find the control system he was looking for.  
He crept down the spiral staircase, making as little noise as he could on the iron steps. All he needed was someone to appear at the bottom of the stairs and that would be it. He pulled out his gun. It had been fitted with a silencer, and he had two spare clips in his jacket pocket. He kept it raised and landed lightly at the foot of the stairs, looking around in the semi darkness, waiting for his eyes to get used to the darkness.  
He was standing at a junction of three corridors and frowned. Which one to take? He listened carefully. To his left sounded like machinery in the background. The other two seemed more silent and somehow safer. He smiled grimly, clutching his weapon in his fist and took the left hand path.

On the surface, Kuryakin took the opportunity to check his arsenal. His gun, two spare clips, and three throwing knives secreted about his person. Not that he had any intention of killing anyone if he could help it, but he would do what had to be done in order to do his job. That’s how things had to be. That’s how things had always been; ever since he was fifteen and had been first recruited and inducted into the KGB. Their training had been harsh and brutal, and Kuryakin prided himself that he had managed to put that whole nightmarish part of his life behind him. The lessons painfully learnt though, could never be forgotten. Not entirely. He was trained to survive. But KGB training did not allow for sentimentality, or friendship. It did not allow for the possibility that he might be willing to put his own life on the line to save that of a comrade. It was UNCLE that had brought him the balance he had so desperately wanted and needed. The acceptance and feeling of belonging.  
He looked around and shook his head. This was a bad place, and if Solo did get into any trouble, it would be suicide entering the place through this entrance. There had to be another way in, there just had to be. He looked at his watch. Six minutes to go. He peered into the darkness and started to creep away towards the furthest edge of the field. There just had to be another way to get inside.

Solo managed to avoid being seen by anyone as he crept down the length of the corridor. He had no light with him, and moved mostly by touching the walls when the glow from surrounding lights grew too dim to light his way. Each time he heard footsteps, he melted into the shadows or hid in a doorway. So far, his luck had held. His best chance of a place to start looking was the place where all the machines were. He knew in a moment when he found it, as he could hear the cacophony the other side of the door…along with the sound of several voices. Didn’t THRUSH personnel ever go to bed? To waltz in as he was would be suicide, but he had to get in there and investigate. Knock out someone and steal their uniform? It seemed the obvious answer, but it seemed just too risky. He could trip some fire alarm to evacuate the building, but that would put Kuryakin in danger outside. There had to be a way to get in there without raising any suspicions.  
His mind went back to the THRUSH satrap in Russia, where he had first encountered Mr. Kuryakin. Illya had taken a very great risk, and if his true identity had been discovered, he would have been treated even more brutally than Solo had been, and they would have killed him slowly and painfully without any shadow of a doubt. Risky indeed, but for Illya at least, it was a ploy that had worked. Would it work for Napoleon Solo? He shook his head. He did not have time for playing those sort of games. He had to find the device, and find it now. He took his rucksack off his shoulder and grabbed a small gas mask and put it over his face, then he grabbed a handful of gas grenades. He threw one down the corridor in both directions, then he threw open the door and threw two more into the room. He closed the door again with a snap. Instantly the babble of voices stopped. He opened the door and crept inside. The gas was already clearing, but the five or six men unconscious on the floor would remain so for another five minutes or so. More than enough time. He scanned the room. The walls were lined with computers and terminals. Several screens spouted streams of virtually unintelligible information. His attention was drawn to the largest screen. There he recognised the unmistakeable sight of a long range missile. They couldn’t have the missile itself here on site. They had no facility to launch anything of that nature. This was a communications centre; Solo was certain of it. If they managed to get their hands on a missile, they would launch it from elsewhere. They would control it from here, deep beneath the New Jersey soil where no one would think of looking. Where was the control unit itself? He glanced at his watch. Two minutes before Illya started laying his explosives. He was running out of time. According to his file, Illya was apparently a scientist. Perhaps he should have assigned this part of the job to Illya? He scanned the rows of switches and controls until he finally located the main control panel. He crouched down and located what he was looking for. The control housing. The release lever for the main control housing finally gave after a crack with the butt of Napoleon’s gun, and the draw slid open. There it was. Solo had seen a mock-up of the real thing, and he had seen a photo of it in position before it had been stolen. This was definitely what they had come for. He released it from its clamps and thrust it into the depths of his rucksack. The sleepers were starting to come round again, and Solo hot-footed it to the door.  
In the corridor, he paused, uncertainly. He could hear multiple footsteps coming from his only escape route. He sighed, and started to run as fast as he could in the opposite direction; hoping he had somewhere safe to run to. He gripped his gun firmly. The footsteps had paused at the control room door. He heard the babel of raised voices and then the expected shouts of anger. Footsteps started running down the corridor in his direction.  
“Damn!” he muttered to himself. “Where are you Illya?” he started to run again.

Illya had explored the edge of the field, and he was pretty sure he had discovered another way into the underground bunker. It might make an acceptable escape route, but since it would involve swimming through an underground lake or river for several hundred yards, it would be no good as an entrance. Submerge his equipment in water, and it would almost all be rendered useless. Especially the explosives. He would have to go down the way Napoleon had, and hope he was not discovered. Another choice rendered moot by the lack of alternatives.  
He opened the trapdoor and listened carefully. This time there was not the silence they had heard before. There was a lot of shouting and running about. Solo had clearly made his presence known somehow. But if this was about his partner, there would not be quite this much confusion if the man had been discovered. Therefore, they knew about Solo’s presence down there, but they had not captured him yet. He reached into his knapsack for his own gas mask and like his partner a few moments before, dropped a gas grenade into the hole.  
Illya ran lightly down the steps, not worrying himself about silence. At the bottom, he took out his first explosive device and set it carefully out of sight at the bottom of the steps. Setting the timer carefully to synchronise with his watch, he set it for ten minutes and pressed `hold’. Once he had them all in place, he could set all the timers going remotely using his watch. He crept away down the right hand tunnel, throwing a grenade ahead of him.  
Napoleon Solo was cornered. He had run out of grenades, and he knew that when these THRUSHes captured him, they would find their missing control unit in five seconds flat. They were coming at him from two directions now. He had his gun of course, but however quick he might be, he could not shoot in two directions at the same time. No one was even bothering to chide or jeer at him. They simply walked slowly towards him with their guns raised. If one of them became suddenly trigger-happy, that would be the end of Napoleon Solo. He raised his gun, and finally one of the approaching THRUSHes laughed in his face.  
“You’re wasting your time. I know you must be UNCLE. Only UNCLE agents are stupid enough to try and infiltrate a place like this. There is only one way in or out, and you will never get back there in one piece. Especially not with that bag on your back. Give it here.”  
“You’ll have to take it.” Solo countered, cocking his gun. The other guns were also cocked, sounding almost deafening in the confines of the tunnel. Solo looked from side to side, then quick as a flash, he raised his gun and shot out the lamp fixed into the roof of the tunnel, plunging everything into sudden blackness; and dropped to his belly on the floor. Deafening gunfire erupted all around him, accompanied by screams and shouts of anger and of pain, and suddenly silence. Climbing tentatively to his feet, he started back down the tunnel and tripped over the dead body of a man lying in his path. He picked his way as quickly and carefully as he could along the corridor until he found himself back in a well-lit section again, and he could start running. In a darkened corner, out of sight, he whipped out his communicator.  
“Illya. Are you there Illya?”  
“You took your time Mr. Solo.”  
“Amusing. Where are you? Are you done?”  
“Almost…”  
Illya frowned. He had heard the audible click which meant that Solo had turned off his communicator. That could only mean one thing. He quickly set the timer on his latest bomb, and started to run, hoping he would not run into any more THRUSHes.  
He neared a bend in the tunnel and slowed, peering round the corner.  
“All right, that’s enough you!”  
Solo was walking down the centre of the tunnel, his hands on his head, with a THRUSH directly behind him, a gun clutched tightly in one hand and Solo’s rucksack clutched in the other. Illya glanced down at his watch and frowned, then pressed `start’. Now, all the detonators he had set would be counting down their ten minutes.  
“Drop it!” came another voice from behind him.  
Solo’s heart dropped into his boots, as he saw his partner sag dispiritedly, dropping his detonator watch onto the floor. The gun was jabbed into his back, forcing him to take another few steps forward. He saw Illya’s captor do the same. He watched his partner suddenly stand up erect, something shiny in his left hand. He saw Illya’s hand whip back. At the same moment, he shouted out “Down!” and Napoleon dropped to his knees. A fraction of a second later, Napoleon’s captor gurgled, and dropped to the floor, the handle of a knife sticking out of his throat. Napoleon looked up in shock, and found his partner standing over the prone form of his own captor, who had the handle of a knife sticking out of his belly. Solo shook his head. To throw two knives like that, one forward, one backward at the same time and hit both targets? Illya had moved like lightning.  
“How did you do that, partner?”  
Illya helped him to his feet and handed him his rucksack.  
“Plenty of practice. We need to get out of here right now or we’ll end up decorating the countryside in a million different pieces. We have eight minutes. Now run! Follow me now!”  
Illya held his third knife in one hand and his gun in the other, and just ran through the tunnels, following his unerring sense of direction toward the lake. Napoleon followed as his partner led him into what appeared to be a cupboard, then down a drain fitted with rusty iron rungs until they let go of the makeshift ladder and plunged into freezing cold water.  
“I hope you can swim Napoleon. Swim as fast as you can. We have four minutes to get a safe distance away.”  
The two men swam for their lives, along the darkened tunnel and then out across the lake in the darkness. Halfway across the lake, they were hit by shockwaves as a massive explosion lit up the sky. Treading water, Napoleon pulled his rucksack more securely onto his shoulders and tapped his partner on the arm.  
“Are you sure you used enough explosives on that one?”  
The grin on his partner’s face was all the answer he needed.

* * *

Solo recalled that first mission clearly. He remembered how they had clambered through the mud in the darkness and staggered across the muddy field to what had been the THRUSH bunker. All that had been left was a huge crater in the ground. Before long the local authorities had arrived to investigate the explosion, alerted by concerned locals, and after showing their identification cards, they had been escorted back to their car. Illya had insisted on doing the driving for the return journey for some reason, and they had arrived back in the New York UNCLE garage at breakfast time. They were both covered in mud from head to foot, their hair sticking up on end, dried mud turning it into sharp spikes. The pair of them had caused quite a stir as they made their way through the corridors of UNCLE HQ to the showers, where one of the girls had already laid out a change of clothes for each of them. Waverly had been satisfied with the successful outcome of the mission, and when he had learned how Illya had disarmed two THRUSH officers at the same time, he had not batted an eyelid.  
Solo stared at Illya now. Without Illya, that assignment would have been a dismal failure. The Russian had proven his worth may times over since then, and had earned a lot of respect within these halls and corridors. Doctor Simpson had told him to say his goodbyes, but Napoleon couldn’t do that. How could he possibly? To say goodbye meant giving up on his friend. He had promised Illya, promised himself that he would never, could never do that. No, there would be no goodbyes.  
“Illya, come on my friend, it’s time you woke up now. Everyone else thinks you have given up. They think you’re too weak to keep fighting. I know better. Come on pal, I can’t do this job without you beside me.”  
Still the eyes remained closed…Napoleon leaned forward and rested his forehead on the bed, exhaustion and worry finally taking their toll on him and he slept.

 

“Napoleon! Napoleon! Wake up!”  
Napoleon groaned and opened his eyes. Waverly’s hand was resting gently on his shoulder. It was his voice that had awakened him. Solo looked round at the older man’s face.  
“Er…Mr Waverly. Sorry sir, I must have dropped off.”  
Mr Waverly was smiling gently.  
“Mr. Solo, there is someone here who is waiting to see you.”  
Solo looked up. The still form in the bed moved slightly, and he could see a pair of brilliant blue eyes watching him. The mask was gone from the face, and many of the disturbing machines and monitors had been removed or turned off.  
“Illya! Illya! You…you’re…”  
The blue eyed smile reached the corner of his mouth.  
“Napoleon, I thought you’d never wake up!”

Doctor Simpson had insisted on Napoleon taking a bed in the next room and having a few hours of proper sleep, and then a proper meal now that his partner was out of danger. Napoleon had demurred, but one glance at Illya’s smiling nod persuaded him to relent, and he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. When he returned to Illya’s side eight hours later, after a long sleep and some toast and coffee brought by the head nurse, he found his partner much improved. He was now sitting propped up on a large bank of pillows, reading a newspaper, or rather, filling in a crossword puzzle. He looked up as Napoleon entered, a wide smile spreading across his face. He put down his paper and pencil and took his partner’s outstretched hand.  
“Napoleon. Doctor Simpson has told me how you saved my life here, twice.”  
Napoleon frowned.  
“I did?”  
Illya nodded, smiling.  
“He tells me that on two separate occasions they had decided that there was no way I was going to make it and they wanted to turn off the life support machines. He said it was only on your insistence that they didn’t. He told me that you insisted I was going to be okay, and they had to give me more time. If it had not been for you, I would have died four days ago. Thank you for believing in me, partner.”  
Napoleon blinked away the tears that had started to his eyes and grinned widely.  
“I have always believed in you Illya, and I always will. Do you remember what we promised one another right at the beginning? That first day you arrived in New York?”  
“I promised you I would always have your back.”  
“And you always have, my friend. I promised you I would always have yours. I was keeping my promise Illya. I was watching your back.”


End file.
